


Within

by Anjelle



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, Angst, Eventual Romance, M/M, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:43:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2361581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anjelle/pseuds/Anjelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Typical amnesia story. After an accident, Ace wakes up in the hospital surrounded by strangers. It isn't until he realizes he doesn't remember his name that he finds out they're his family. That's great and all, but what was he like before the accident? Why's there a gun in his room? And what about that kid who's terrified of him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awake

Everything was dark. His head pounded and it felt like someone was yelling in his ear. He heard a loud, violent ringing. Eyes fluttering open, all he could make out in his bleary vision was a white ceiling. There were people, he thought, but he couldn't make them out. Everything meshed together as his lids weighed heavily on his eyes.

_…Where am I?_

* * *

The first thing to rouse his senses was the stench of disinfectant that seemed to loom around him. Its overpowered aroma was enough to make him cringe, his throat running dry as he stirred. Among that horrid smell was the much milder hint of other chemicals he couldn't place. The combination of it all made him feel sick.

Off to the side he could here an annoying beeping, persistently breaking the almost-quiet of his location. Mumbled voices could be heard from far into the distance, coupled with ringing and other unidentifiable noises. Still, despite that, there wasn't much sound.

Groaning, he found his throat hoarse and raw. There was a light pain in his skull, remaining constant as he tried to ignore it. He debated laying there longer, worried that opening his eyes might cause the pain to increase. He was still tired and more than anything wanted rest.

As soon as he made that slight bit of noise he heard quick shuffling beside where he lay, followed by a warm grasp on his hand.

"Ace," called a soft, effeminate voice. When he made no reply, the person continued. "Ace, are you awake? Can you hear me?"

Slowly he fought to open his eyes, blinded by the white walls and ceiling of whatever room he was in. He squinted, trying to make out the features of whoever loomed over him as his eyes adjusted. The first he saw were long, blonde strands resting against her cheeks, followed by deep, dark eyes filled with concern.

The second she saw him open his eyes her face broke into a wide, hopeful smile. The grip on his hand tightened as the woman's free arm rose to his face, lightly brushing hair from his forehead. He was having trouble focusing and had no clue what was going on.

"Hey, there," she began in a sweet, caring voice, eyes softening as she looked over his features. "How are you feeling?"

He went to speak, only to remember the dryness in his throat, leaving his voice scratchy and useless. It was probably for the best; he didn't really know what to say. His mind was still cloudy from sleep and he couldn't seem for formulate proper questions.

As he fumbled with his voice he heard slow, steady steps approach. Slowly he shifted his gaze to the other side of the bed, met with a dark figure. It was a man that time, one with coal-black hair and a large mustache. With sharp eyes staring down at him, the man was a bit intimidating—nothing like the woman sitting beside him.

"You almost did yourself in, you idiot." With that, the stranger broke into a wry grin, reached out and ruffled his hair energetically.

What was he talking about? He… almost died? That explained the constant aching he felt, but not much else. He then knew why he was in a hospital, attached to all sorts of machines. That was one mystery solved.

Before he knew it he was drifting off again. Darkness crept into the edges of his vision, blacking out the world around him. As his eyes shut, he took one last look at the two people at his bedside, wondering who they were.

* * *

When next he woke, he opened his eyes a lot sooner. With the pain in his body lessening he was more eager to wake. As he peered into the room he was greeted by the same stark-white walls, reflecting the sunlight coming in through the large windows to his right. It was almost too bright to look at and he winced, drawing back as he prepared to try again.

Once he fully woke he looked around. On his bedside table was a bouquet, likely the only thing driving away the smell of antiseptic that he found so nauseating. Then across the room he spotted that familiar golden hair. The woman turned slightly to catch a glimpse of him, then smiled.

Shifting in place he went to sit up, groaning as the muscles in his waist screamed at him to lie back down. The blonde shuffled over and wrapped her arm around his back, allowing him a bit of support in case he needed it.

"Are you okay?" she asked in that same, soothing voice.

He went to speak but instead coughed, finding his throat just as parched as before. Instead he nodded silently in reply. She seemed to notice his problem because she rushed over to a tray on the other side of the bed and removed a glass from it, offering it to him.

Quickly he downed the glass, leaving not a drop as cool, wet relief trailed down his dried esophagus.

"Feeling better?"

"Y-yeah," he choked out, voice still hoarse as he did.

Her smile grew and she gently caressed his cheek. "Take it easy, alright?"

He nodded hesitantly in reply, studying her face further. He didn't get a good look at her when last he woke because of his tiredness. Her skin was pale ivory, dotted by tiny freckles. Her hair sat against her back in waves, shining golden in the white light of the room.

She noticed his staring and her face fell. "What's wrong?"

He broke eye contact to instead face the sheets spread over his lap, unsure of what to say. The whole thing felt awkward. The woman was being strangely intimate and he couldn't figure out why. He didn't mind the attention, though.

"…Ace?"

As he thought more, he remembered she called him by that before, as well. For some reason he didn't want to ask about it—felt that doing so was wrong. But he wanted answers. He was so confused and didn't know who else to ask. Should he say something?

He turned to face her once more, swallowing nervously. "Is that my name?"

The woman's already pale completion turned white, eyes wide, and immediately he knew he said something wrong. He tried to think of how to remedy the situation, but couldn't come up with anything. He didn't want to upset her; he just wanted to know.

"Sorry," he said in that same raspy voice, remorse clear in his tone.

The woman's features softened and she furrowed her brow in worry. "Oh, Ace…" She cupped the back of his head and pulled him forward, allowing his chin to rest on her shoulder. "Yeah, that's your name," she stated shakily, wrapping him in a loose embrace.

That was one question answered, but he felt bad when he heard her saddened voice.

"…You don't remember?"

He shook his head. She tightened her grip.

The sound of the door opening interrupted the moment. Both turned to see the man with the mustache from before enter with a bag in hand. He was grinning just like before and looked between the two sitting on the bed. Once he saw the blonde's expression, though, he frowned just as she did. "What is it, Rouge?"

She took a deep breath and, instead of answering, looked to Ace, smiling weakly. "That's your father, Ace—Gol D. Roger."

He glanced at the man standing in the doorway, registering his face more clearly than before, and then looked back to the blonde woman. "Then you're…"

She nodded. "Portgas D. Rouge—your mother," she elaborated. "And you're Portgas D. Ace. We're your family."

He looked between them and gave a reluctant nod. There was no use doubting her claims because, well, he couldn't remember anything. It felt strange knowing that those two strangers were his parents.

* * *

Rouge sighed as she adjusted the blankets on her son's sleeping form. She stared down at his face, thinking of their earlier conversation. "I still can't believe it," she whispered, standing up straight.

Roger was by her side, wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulders. He wasn't really sure what to say—how to cheer her up. Their own son didn't know who they were. He seemed different, too. "He's a lot quieter now."  _Might be because he thinks we're strangers, though._

The blonde nodded, leaning into him. "…Do you think he'll ever remember?"

"Who knows?"

She bit her lip. Roger was never one for subtlety.

Noticing the tension in her shoulders, her husband moved to give her a tight hug, resting his chin atop her head. "He'll be alright."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he replied, giving her one of his usual grins. "He's my son, after all."

She smiled. "You're right."

* * *

 


	2. Visitation

The two sat side-by-side, staring hard at the doctor on the other side of the desk. He flipped through a few papers, stacked them then pushed them to the side, tangling his fingers together as he made eye contact. Giving them a half-hearted smile, he pulled a folder from the top drawer and opened it.

"The results were fine; he doesn't seem to have any brain damage."

The pair exhaled their worries away. After two days of waiting they finally had answers. The blow to the head Ace received during the accident was thought to be the cause of his amnesia, but they had to check to make sure that there wasn't further damage. If other areas of the brain were hit he could have lost more than his memories, like his learned abilities, writing skills and much more serious things that they preferred not to think of.

"Then…" Roger's voice trailed off. He wasn't one to beat around the bush but he wasn't sure how to phrase his question, either. While not very bothered by his son not remembering him, he was still a bit taken aback by it. It left him all but speechless.

The doctor's smile grew more sincere. "Ace will be fine."

"Will he remember?" Roush asked, voice lifted with newfound hope.

"I'm afraid I can't answer that."

* * *

Slow, lazy steps pattered against the linoleum floor. The hard, reflective surface stared back at the blonde walking across it when he faced downward, not bothering to take more than a quick glance at each of the room numbers he passed by. He knew the general area of his destination and, as such, didn't bother with keeping an eye out for it.

He got a call about a week ago. The frantic voice on the other line didn't make much sense, but he got the gist of what it tried to tell him: Ace was hurt. Since that day when he first arrived in the emergency waiting room to find out what happened he hadn't been to visit—wasn't one to worry and watch unconscious people sleep. Trusting that the youth's parents were perfectly capable of caring for him, he let them do just that.

It wasn't until yesterday when he got another—more positive—call stating that his bruised and battered associate was awake again. He would never admit it but that relieved some terrible worries he had. Despite his laid-back and calm demeanour he cared a lot for his friends and that meant that all week he couldn't get his mind off the poor, freckled boy in the hospital. He felt a lot lighter knowing that he was alright.

Turning the corner, he looked up from his reflection on the floor to begin scanning the numbers. He knew Thatch would be there soon and wanted to get a few words in with the patient beforehand. Oh, right—Thatch was the frantic voice on the phone last week. A natural prankster and constant annoyance, the redhead was also like a bother to him—and Ace, if he had to guess. That man was the one who got Ace to the hospital. From what he recalled, he was also one of the few people to visit the freckled victim during his first few days staying in that sterilized hell-hole but couldn't keep up the pace; he skipped work a few too many times.

After stopping on his heel, he looked to his right. There it was: Room 216. Glaring at the bold, black lettering above the door as though it was a set of prison bars, he inhaled deeply. Then he sighed. The hospital was no place for Ace; he had too much energy to be confined to a bed all day. He knew that as soon as he walked in there he would be bombarded with thousands of complaints from the youth as he dramatically flailed his arms around, trying to show what he could not put into words. There would be whining, there would be sulking and finally there would be a desperate plea from the boy as he begged to be taken away from the god-awful place. And he would have to decline.

Turning the handle, he casually flung the door open, lazy eyes looking at nothing in particular as he shuffled into the room and shut the slab of wood behind him. The sound it made was enough to rouse the patient who, at the time, was sitting in bed, staring out the window. His head snapped around to face the blonde and take him in.

What he expected was a loud, boisterous greeting followed immediately by complaints. That didn't happen. Instead he was met with narrowed eyes—a suspicious glare. Maybe the accident affected him more than he thought.

"Hey," he greeted with a lazy wave as he moved further into the room, coming to rest against the wall. He decidedly ignored the look he was given and passed it off as a possible side-effect to his medication or a result of the pain he was in.

The blonde took a moment to take in Ace's appearance. He wanted to see what damage was done that day. While his generously-bandaged torso and forehead left much to the imagination, he could see a hefty amount of damage otherwise. There were green bruises along his arms, no doubt mostly healed. Still some were purple and brown, pushing the fact that even after a week they remained strong. He must have been hit pretty hard, then. The discoloured skin around his mouth wasn't very pleasant to look at—nor were the bags under his eyes.

"You look like hell yoi," he noted lazily in an attempt to strike up a conversation with the boy. Maybe if he got him talking he'd get back to his usual, loud self. Then there was the problem of disturbing the other patients if he did… Well, at least he had a private room.

His only response was that same wary gaze.

His eyebrow twitched. That look was a bit irritating. It didn't show on his face, though. As moments passed and the look did not fade from the other's face, his annoyance quelled and morphed to concern. Ace was never like that. "Something wrong?" he asked, shifting his stance and crossing his arms as he leaned back against the wall.

Finally Ace broke eye contact to stare at his sheets. Still, though, he said not a word.

"Oi, Ace? What is it?"

The freckled man's face softened from its cold look into something more natural. And then he looked nervous. He—Portgas D. Ace—looked uneasy. To see an expression like that on such a cocky person's face made the blonde tense. Something was seriously wrong, wasn't it?

"Do I… know you?"

The blonde's eyes widened slightly from their usual lidded appearance, mouth ajar. He unfolded his arms and stood upright, suddenly at full attention. "You—"

"Ace!" came a cheery voice as the door to the room flung open, revealing a smiling man with a pompadour hairstyle. He wasted no time in rushing to the bed, dropping a gift bag onto the boy's lap and slinging an arm around his shoulders. "How you feelin' buddy?"

The patient looked completely dumbstruck, eyes wide as they took in the item on his lap and the overly-friendly adult next to him. He continued to stare at the present, unsure of what to make of anything.

The blonde bit his lip.  _You have the worst damn timing in the world, Thatch._

Thatch continued to smile and didn't bother to wait for an answer to his question. "It's great to see you awake again! Last time I was here you looked like a zombie," he paused, "except, well, not dead." The room fell silent again and when he saw the other wasn't going to give a response he continued, leaning close to the younger's ear. His voice was a low whisper. "Hey, you see any hot nurses around? Because you know I—"

"Thatch," growled a voice from off in the corner.

The man lifted his head to see a rather irate blonde watching him with lidded eyes. "Oh, Marco! Didn't see you there," he noted as he removed his arm from the patient's shoulders. His friend's eyes narrowed further and he pouted. "I was just joking about the nurse, you know."

Ignoring the more flamboyant of the two, Marco gazed at Ace, giving him a more neutral look. "What did you ask yoi?"

Ace seemed to snap out of whatever stupor he was in to face the older blonde.

Thatch looked between them incredulously, wondering what he missed before entering the room. It didn't seem right and for a moment he wondered if they were keeping something from him.

Shoulders tense, the freckled boy prepared to speak. "I was wondering… if I knew you."

Thatch's eyes shot wide open and he spun to face his injured friend in disbelief.

The blonde's shoulders slumped back into a more relaxed position. _Thought so._  "You do," he replied simply, no sort of shock or panic showing on his face, much unlike his redheaded associate.

Ace seemed to relax at that and the doubtful, cautious look fully removed itself from his features. "Oh," he said, having just as little reaction as Marco. "…I thought I might."

Thatch's head spun back and forth between the two, wondering why they were so calm. He certainly wasn't. "W-wait! Ace, you…" He swallowed.

"You don't remember yoi?" Marco finished for him.

Ace shook his head.

"Forgot everything?"

He nodded weakly.

Marco exhaled and closed his eyes as he thought that over in his head, not giving much of a reaction. "Alright," he said casually as he continued mauling it over. He knew something like that—as outlandish and cliché as it was—was a possibility when he heard he received a head injury. While it was surprising, it wasn't something he hadn't thought about. He was the type to prepare for the worst, after all, and it could have been much worse than that.

Ace looked a bit surprised when he heard that. He likely received dramatic, over-the-top reactions when he told people before then. Marco wasn't the type to dwell on minor hindrances like that. Besides, he didn't want to add to the boy's stress; he forgot everything and everyone he met was a stranger, all reacting horribly to the news. He wouldn't contribute to that.

"So…" the patient began, giving the two in the room his attention, "who are you?"

Thatch's face sagged into a frown. His lip quivered and before long he jumped on the boy, squeezing him tightly in the most over-dramatic hug he could muster. "My poor little Acey!"

Marco rolled his eyes.

The redhead pulled away to place his hands on both of Ace's shoulders, staring him in the eyes. "Don't worry; you're big brothers will take care of you," he stated with a grin.

At that point Ace stopped trying to rationalize the redhead's actions and didn't react to him, instead focusing on what he said. "…Brothers?"

"Ignore him," Marco commanded, shooting Thatch a dull glare. He didn't want the poor boy any more confused than he already was. "Just think of us as 'friends' yoi. We're here if you need anything." He decided to keep it simple, seeing as it was probably quite a bit to take in.

Ace gave him a reluctant nod before turning back to the man who was a little too touchy-feely.

"I'm Thatch," he said with a huge grin, contrasting his earlier worry. He let go of the boy to point his thumb over his shoulder. "The pineapple over there is Marco."

The patient blinked. "Pineapple?"

Thatch's grin spread even wider. "You don't see it?"

His eyes scrolled to the top of the blonde's head and the slightest indication of a smile appeared in his face. "I see it."

Marco closed his eyes a second time, eyebrow twitching as his face turned a hint of pink. He wouldn't say anything. Under any other circumstances they would be dead but because his friend looked so lost he decided to forgo any violence—for the time, at least.

* * *

The two stood out in the hall outside room 216, glancing through the tiny window at the sleeping figure on the bed. It had only been an hour since they arrived but Ace started getting tired so they decided to let him rest. His recovery was more important, after all.

Their visit was spent not trying to make Ace remember, but just getting him to loosen up. He was nervous around them—naturally—and while his memories were important they both resigned themselves to the knowledge that regaining them may never happen. It was more important to get him comfortable with them, and even more important to just get him to worry less. How unnerving was it to have so many strangers around him, bombarding him with 'remember this?' questions?

Thatch scratched his head absently as he looked through the tiny, little window into his friend's room. "He's really…"

"Different?" Marco asked.

"Yeah," he began. "I mean I know why, but…" His voice faded and he shrugged the thought away. "I'll get used to him!"

Marco fell back against the wall, tired eyes focused on a spot on the floor. "It could be worse."

Thatch smiled. "True. On the bright side, at least he's forgotten about that kid."

The blonde's eyes narrowed as he contemplated that. "I wonder how good that really is."


End file.
